


Of Heists and Himbos

by gaytypo



Category: The Penumbra Podcast
Genre: Fake/Pretend Relationship, Multi, Other, Slow Burn, Some OCs relationships depicted will be polyamorous, There's OCs for the sake of plot, Written before season 3, season 2 finale spoilers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-18
Updated: 2020-02-20
Packaged: 2020-12-23 16:28:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21084347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gaytypo/pseuds/gaytypo
Summary: A subterfuge-filled barbecue; petty theft; increasingly enraged PTA members fighting for superiority; blackmail; egregious violations of homeowner association guidelines; affairs; Peter Nureyev as a ditzy trophy husband; un-petty theft; Jet Sikuliaq as The Braincell; corporate espionage; Buddy and Vespa as tired lesbian moms; breaking-and-entering; Rita as someone's cover identity’s secretary; steak knives at a gun fight; and Juno Steel, as either the linchpin or weakest link, as is yet to be determined. How the hell did we get here?





	1. Prologue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The start of something new plagued by memories of something old. Cheer up, Juno.

By Buddy's standards, the last few missions have gone well. I don't really have standards for successful criminal activity that I'm part of, so I'm just taking her word for it. Everyone seems  _ content _ and  _ idle _ , after all. All enjoying the free time where money and opportunity isn't yet a concern. Jet completes a puzzle with Rita while a stream blares loudly in the lounge. Buddy and Vespa cradle one another between the various stirs and flips of preparing dinner for a ship's worth of people. I rotate idly between the puzzle, the stream, and my comms, none really holding my attention. And Nureyev—well, he holds my attention. Not that he's particularly trying to do so.

The gentleman thief is sprawled asleep across the largest couch we've got. He's been that way for a couple hours, at least. Ever since the last heist, he's just been sleeping. Recharging, I'd guess. He worked really hard. I don't think we would have  _ this _ —whatever you call free time on a ship of criminals—if he hadn't put out at least five metaphorical fires, and one literal one (thanks, Rita). So the man's tired. Even a concerned teammate or friend wouldn't spend this long staring.

His arm is dangling off the couch, its long reach disappearing into the carpet and blankets he's managed to hoard and immediately kick down. His torso, mostly uncovered by those blankets, rises and falls evenly. With each breath, it seems like his soft mauve sweater slips a bit more from his shoulder. Speaking of soft, his hair falls forward, obscuring his eyes in the stead of his glasses. Those lenses balance precariously on the edge of the cushion his cheek is pressed up against. If he weren't grimacing something fierce, a firm line where typically curved lips reside, he'd be in a perfect position to drool all cutely.

Which brings me to my latest justification for being so distracted by his nap. I've seen Nureyev sleep peacefully, a content grin for the first time after a grueling stay in a Martian tomb, and I've seen him sleep fitfully, for fear or distrust or just plain pain. Right now he sleeps solidly, but not happily.

And since it's not life-threatening, I don't really feel like I'm the person to bring that up.

His current alias is Zadkiel Marsh, a lone wolf sort of thief who finds himself playing nice with a crew. His passions are withholding personal information and being smug about his skills. Altogether, it's not much of a stretch of Nureyev's acting skills. I don't know which of us aboard the ship have come to the same conclusion.

So I stand up, head towards the kitchen, stopping to pull Nureyev's blankets back over him before asking Vespa if there's anything I can do to help.

"I think we've got it covered," she says, precisely cutting some leafy seasoning-looking thing I can never remember the name of.

Buddy cuts in with the salt. "Ah, but Juno, perhaps you can give us some feedback. We have been discussing our next mission."

Vespa playfully bumps hips before interrupting, " _ You  _ were talking about ideas. I was saying you work too much. Let's just enjoy one night, Bud."

"I'm not saying we have to plan anything immediately. I was just pondering. Truly. Juno, do you have any requests for what we do next?"

Frankly, no. By now, they've all learned my preferred method of planning out of my realm is let someone else do it then poke holes in it like an asshole. I say as much 

"Really, Juno , darling? Can't come up with anything you want to do?"

_ Obviously not _ . 

I feel Rita’s presence shaming me from the table. I have to come up with some kind of answer. If I don’t, then any time I complain they’ll just point out that I had no ideas when they were asking. And they’d be right. So I try to think of anything. My ex-cop, ex-private eye brain turns up nothing. Somewhere deeper, I think about my only experience with stealing  _ before  _ Buddy. "Maybe something less intensive for Marsh," I say, looking at the couch in my periphery, "Besides, I think I heard Sikuliaq and Rita talking about cool and useful stuff they wanna do. We don’t have to give one thief all of the glory."

Vespa just rolls her eyes and switches off the dials on the stove. Buddy gives me a look that probably could be described as knowing. “Duly noted, I’ll keep that in mind,” she offers before holding out a stack of plates. “Set the table now, sweetheart.” It’s a dismissal and not a request, but someone that’s endeared themselves to her might almost feel like she’s a mother making her kid help out around the house. Even though I’m the one that came over and offered to help, I do grumble something spiteful as I take the plates from her.

En route to the table (not the one Rita’s puzzle adventure has sequestered), I turn around and immediately bump into Peter Nureyev.

“Fucking--shit!” I jolted so abruptly that if it weren’t for his stabilizing hands the plates would be all over the floor. “Since when have you been awake?”

He grins, clearly enjoying my overt reaction. “Since a certain person decided to suffocate me with blankets.”

"You know I wasn't trying to suffocate you."

"Because I'm not dead?"

"I wouldn't have used the blankets."

The interaction keeps me tense, on-guard. Of course there's no good reason, but I can't help waiting for the other shoe to drop around him. Whenever we talk, his mask slides around. Zadkiel Marsh keeps me at a comfortable distance, close enough to betray if things go south. Sometimes he conjures back Rex Glass, albeit mostly around Rita or when he wants to reach out without those consequences. Around Sikuliaq he can become someone mean, someone who drapes himself tauntingly over the hood of the Ruby7 and bares teeth. Then, when it’s just the two of us, Peter Nureyev peeks out beneath the surface. Familiarity and regret and dripping-with-emotion pauses where we won't say what needs to be said. His mask slides around to people I know and don't know and want to know and don't deserve to know.

Seamlessly, he takes half of the plates from me. "Allow me to help with that." 

"Wow, chivalry is not dead, and all that. How will I ever repay you for saving me from the awful weight of three metal plates," I deadpan, setting my half on the table. "Hey, Rita, Sikuliaq. It's almost grub time."

The mask slides. The moment ends.


	2. The Plan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's already a new heist on the horizon, and, really, we're not quite ready for it.

"It's a bit earlier than I'd like, but we need to start working on our next endeavor." Buddy announces later with an odd blend of fervor and anxiety.

“Why the urgency?” Juno asks.

Jet pulls up something on his comms and answers simply, “Real estate.”

In turn, Juno’s shoulders scrunch up. It is my understanding that his latest case involving real estate ended up being much more than he bargained for.

Vespa is one of the few people aboard this ship who doesn’t care for the cagey dealings between teammates. So, of course, she’s the first to explain, even if due to sheer impatience. I once commented that she was somewhat lacking in this directness to her interpersonal relationships, but it did not go well for me. Regardless, she explains, “There’s a lot of rich assholes in a very private neighborhood of Ceres begging to get robbed blind.”

The premise sounds familiar, resonating distantly with an old heist I had to skip out on due to extenuating circumstances. “Dawn Escape?” I ask.

She nods, “Space Suburbia herself.”

Jet brings up the image from his comms on the big screen. “A listing for one of their estates just went up. An unfortunate accident with the previous resident that has gotten very little media coverage. We might have not even noticed the listing without Rita’s excellent algorithm watching for just the opportunity.”

Juno looks as he always does, bursting with questions and visibly struggling with which ones he can get out before someone punches him, “Yeah, thanks for that, Rita. But why were you watching for a house? What are we looking for?”

“Patience, Juno. That is where the answer gets a little bit complicated, but all the more fun,” Buddy says.

“Let me guess,” I say, “Two birds and one stone?”

“More precisely three birds and six stones.” Jet shifts the image onscreen to an ornate house and she starts to explain. “There’s a few things that are less than guaranteed, so we’re going after three targets at once to make sure that if some of the plan falls through, we still have a paycheck when we get the hell out of there. The first is a highly sought-after vase just sitting on display in the Nichols mansion. Retrieve and sell. Standard stuff, really.” Jet turns to a picture of said vase. It looks very expensive. As well as fragile and heavy. “Assuming we can get it out of the house, that is.”

Vespa takes over as the image changes once more to a smiling group of people in front of some laboratory. “Second is something I’m more familiar with. We’re looking to steal the notes for FreyaLabs’ experimental cure to Moggsculiasis. There’s buzz flying around that they’ve actually got it developed and in final stages, but want to profit off of the short-term care for a while longer before selling the cure at something much higher than it costs to manufacture it. Saffron Pharmaceuticals is practically frothing at the mouth to get it out first.”

"Art theft and corporate spying. This already sounds quite fun, and we've still got another daring plot on our agenda," I comment.

"I'll admit that the next one is a bit more abstract than what we're familiar with," Jet notes. "The estate we've been tracking has some interesting history. The now-late Eduard Gregorshyv's great grandmother built the house to protect their family's ‘ancient secrets’. The rumors of what they're hiding and where are quite fascinating."

"It's just like that movie you fell asleep watching three separate times, Mistah Steel. The vampire-hunters hid all of their gear and books in a secret cellar that could only be opened by members of the bloodline. Then, years of discourse and the ungratefulness of humanity and disbelief drives the family down until the last remaining descendant rediscovered all of the secrets when humanity needed it most and the pretty girl vampire—"

"Rita, please. I'll fall asleep again if you keep it up," Juno doesn't yell at so much as plead with her. "Tell me about the real mystery, not the movie one."

“Right. Well, this Eduard guy was pretty passive with the family business. His cousins hated him! There was some really funny communications between em complaining about poor Ed. Rumor is, though, his will was incredibly confusing but specific enough to say that none of his relatives could go back to the estate except for a nephew that’s been missing for years. Didn’t say the nephew has to live in it, though.”

Juno looked like he was already trying to solve it, “So they got pissy and decided to just sell it all to whoever.”

“Bingo!”

“It sounds like there’s about a 5% chance of finding something of real value and a 95% chance that we’re listening to hearsay.”

“Not necessarily,” I say. “It’s closer to 30-70 based on my past experiences with this neighborhood.”

Buddy cocked an eyebrow. “Let’s the two of us discuss  _ that _ in a few. Regardless, I also have some history here and am a bit more hopeful. Eduard was an odd duck, made some poor financial decisions, sure. Never once, though, did he seem at need for money."

Juno: "Alright so fancy pot, drug trial, and mystery flavor. Are we splitting into two and taking one each?" 

"Largely, yes. However, we will have to help each other out and shift around as circumstances change. The timeline is a bit difficult, so we can't risk stealing something and being caught while there's still other things left to do on Ceres."

Rita: "How are we being paired up? I want someone new this time! Please don't make me stay alone in a sad hacking room, either. I need enrichment. And snacks."

Jet: "I'm glad that you asked. In talking to Buddy, we had a couple of ideas, but I thought it would be good to ask everyone what they prefer to focus on."

Buddy stands up from the table, signalling to us an end to the meeting, at least briefly. "Vespa, could you consult Juno? And Jet, darling, the same for Rita. I want to clarify a few details with Mr. Marsh, myself."

—————

"What do you wanna steal, Steel?"

"Do you have to put my name in every sentence with the word steal? At first it was a funny coincidence, but now it kinda feels like you're doing it to grate on me."

"It's still funny. And I enjoy annoying you. Makes every second that you spend annoying us feel worth it."

"Okay, Vespa….. Kill?"

"How did you know my maiden name?" She deadpans. "Which heist, Juno?"

“Fuck, I don’t know. Not the vase. Anything but the vase. Just like. Whichever one contains the least amount of actual crime, that’s the one I’ll do.”

She crosses her arms, a flash of her scars and the tattoo that marrs more than just her flesh. I don’t want to pick favorites amongst this hodge-podge group of people, and certainly  _ some _ people mean very different things to me, but I definitely like Vespa’s company more than I’ll ever let her know. She and I are the group cynics, I think. Hers is more superstition, but has the same effect. And sure, everyone gives you shit for being the negative asshole, but someone’s gotta do it. The one time Juno Steel says,  _ sure, nothing can go wrong _ , everything will.

“That is probably the worst attitude a team member could have, you know.”

“You want me to prove that wrong? I can do worse.”

Likely too tired to dignify that with a response, she moves on. “Right so, no vase. You’ll have to play nice with the new neighbors. And your teammates. You wanna be Marsh’s bodyguard or his spouse?”

“What?” I noticed my own volume in the awkward silence after that exclamation.

“I guess you could also be the assistant.”

“No, I mean. Does it really have to--ugh, no, you're right.” I consider the possible covers. It’s not like any of us can pose as each others parents. Siblings is also pretty hard to believe. Why would some brothers move into a suburb together? There’s gotta be some happily married rich couple. “So, whoever goes after the vase won’t be ‘moving in’?”

“Nope. Doesn’t make sense to.”

So it’s a matter of what I would be able to bear more—spending an indeterminate period of time at Nureyev’s side (bodyguard or spouse, not all that different), or the no-doubt incredibly difficult and aggravating expensive vase that I would definitely manage to break some way or another. 

“You know, not too long ago I remember you asking us if we could make the next mission lighter on Marsh. Seems like the only way to do that would be to work right alongside him. Ease the burden, or whatever justification you need.” Vespa leans to the side a bit, making her gaze obvious. I follow it to him, speaking smoothly with Buddy about whatever fascinating past he has on Ceres. He has the unperturbed aura of Zadkiel Marsh on full-blast, leaning casually and taking his time with responses. No doubt withholding details. But when I look a bit closer—as I’m usually prone to do with him—and see a glint in his eyes that betrays his suave alter-ego. He’s excited for this one. Vespa starts talking again, pulling me out of the Nureyev Trance, “If you’re not comfortable, Jet can be his husband—”

My mouth betrays my brain faster than I can process that I spoke at all: “I’ll do it.”


	3. The Newlyweds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tip: The key to a good fake marriage is communication.

We spend a while on our cover identities. Brainstorming, forgery, falsifying documents, hacking, the whole slate of fun. Juno is uncharacteristically quiet, attributing such to his lack of knowledge in the area. Still, I see him bristle every time  _ our  _ covers are mentioned. 

I offered to repurpose elements of Duke and Dahlia Rose, but Buddy did not think it was wise. Could be compromised or something unsavory might be unearthed. So Solomon and Regina Finch are born. Regina, Juno’s cover, is the breadwinner, an executive in some posh blaster manufacturing company with a successful market of wealthy people with too much time for recreational gun ownership. Solomon is effectively his trophy husband, no clear profession but an impressive taste for fine wines. Jet is posing as Hendrixx Glades, their personal bodyguard. Also living with the happy couple, quite begrudgingly in fact, is the executive assistant, Jeanine Blanchette. Rita was, well, I would say bothered at the least, at the news that she would basically be Juno’s secretary again. 

“Why does he get to be all cool and rich?”

“Rita we need a good excuse for you to use your comms."

"That's a good point but I won't pretend to be happy about it!"

All being said, I'm rather happy about this operation. Excitement, secret identities, crime, and Juno Steel, forced to stay in the same room as me for an extended period of time. Everything could go wrong but somehow I can't bring myself to care. I’ve never been quite so good at that.

I do resent that Vespa and Buddy can't live with us for the heist. Whatever PTA angle they're going to try to work from the outside, I hope they're successful. Perhaps they’re hoping to relive a bit of their glory days, the infamous Buddy and Vespa versus the elite. They’re amongst the few thieves I respect and the even fewer that I might trust. Might.

Juno stands up from his chair, “Are we done here? I’ve got a hot date with my bed.”

“You’ll get your naptime soon, Juno dearest,” Buddy assured, “But I very much need you to be on the same page with your teammates about your covers. It might be beneficial to discuss with your husband a few things so you don’t get surprised later.”

“Fine, fine, okay. Marsh, meet me in the kitchen.” And he’s gone.

I exchange a look with Buddy. Buddy exchanges a look with Vespa. Jet invites Rita to the lounge so that he might teach her how to answer questions that she doesn’t really know the answer to without blowing our cover. I take one moment to collect myself before following our ever-so-beloved detective.

————

Nureyev’s glass tinks gently as he mixes sugar into his tea. The ice in my whiskey jingles something similar as drops condense and evaporate. The kitchen is empty of people, except for the two of us, and silent, except for the singing of our drinks. It might seem like I’m pouting to the rest of the team. I probably wouldn’t have a good defense against that, to be honest. I’d just say something sarcastic and go back to dreading how awkward life will be and how much of that is directly my fault.

“So, what kind of partner can I expect from Regina Finch?” Nureyev asks.

Involuntarily, I level a glare at him. “Probably the same kind as Dahlia Rose or Juno Steel.”

“Okay, character study and development may not be your strong suit. Let’s try something easier, more tangible. What kind of things will you wear?”

_ Great, he’s babying me _ , I think before actually trying to come up with an answer. What would some rich person wear? “Expensive-looking stuff, I guess. If he’s a blaster kinda person, maybe nothing too impractical. Could I get away with nice looking jackets?”

He smiles at my answer, a fondness I can’t look directly at. “That should be fine. What about your eye?”

“What about it?”

“Will you wear an eyepatch or a glass eye or the like? If someone asks about it, what do you say?”

“You don’t think they’ll enjoy a story about an ancient martian drug that causes mind-reading?” I try to laugh bitterly at that. He gives a sort of hum, acknowledging that I said something but not enough to satisfy his question. “I’ll say it was a hunting accident? And I’d rather wear an eyepatch. I, uhm, don’t really enjoy shoving stuff in there.”

Fortunately, he only nods, understanding enough to move on from the uncomfortable topic. “Maybe I’ll make you a new eyepatch. Accessorize a bit. Would you be okay with that?”

_ “Oh. _ Um, uh. Uh-huh. Yeah. Sure. Um, I guess I can talk about my doting husband and his homemade gifts. Really sell the relationship. Yeah.”

The corner of his eyes crinkle a bit. He really savors the moment before speaking again, “Speaking of your doting husband, what kind of relationship should be portray? Loving? Obliging? Old and familiar? New and full of chemistry?"

There's a level of the question that isn't said. It's safe to talk about our characters and how they  _ should  _ interact. It's not safe to admit he's asking how he  _ can  _ interact with me. As though my boundaries and feelings are the most important. Doesn't he know how afraid I am of hurting him more?

"We should probably be newlyweds. It won't seem weird that we don't have kids."

I answered the wrong question and he knows it. He's not the one of us, though, that is passive and moves on. Not when it matters. "And our intimacy?" He moves closer, fingers brush the edge of my sleeve. "How much are you okay with?"

His fingers pierce hot through my sleeve, burning and bruising like the plasma knife he knows to avoid. At the same time, the touch is nothing. He's too far; his grip is too loose—too gentle—and I  _ want  _ for more. I could tell him anything and everything and whatever he's willing to give me. But I can't. It's not fair to him. I already made my choice and he doesn't deserve to be led on and left because I'm a coward. If I wake up someday and decide this life isn't for me, well, I'd still be a complete asshole. But at least I can be an asshole that isn't giving him false hope.

I stiffen my shoulders and toss back the last of my drink. "Whatever is needed to be convincing. I'll try to follow your lead. If something is bothering me, I'll just like pinch you or whatever. And that's the same for you, too. Tell me if something's wrong."

"I understand." Several emotions flicker through his eyes rapidly like sunshine filtering through stained glass before he finishes off his glass as well. "For your convenience, my safe word is Angel."


	4. The Titular Regina Finch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> God these guys are so annoying, right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yikes sorry i stopped posting! the premiere got to me. this is officially Canon Divergent B)

Not that you'll find me admitting it aloud, but I do not have many practical home skills. I despise cooking and cleaning. In general my organization leaves something to be desired. I'd sooner stab a laundry machine than run one (as if I wear anything that isn't hand wash only). Frankly I'd do the same to a dishwasher. But I do pride myself on my sewing, learned only through perseverance and an obscene amount of needle pricks. The skill came from utility need, and was really put to the test for a cover identity that feels like a relic from ages ago. But old skills do not fade so easily.

Therefore, when given a chance to make something nice for Juno. I'm going to make it  _ nice.  _ Some mixture of indignation and affections never recovered from. And if I overdo it? Well, it's rather in character for me. Obsessive pettiness. Absolute perfectionism. Frankly he should expect no less. Yet, I know he'll be surprised. A mixture of appreciation and apprehension in his gaze. I didn't even think he'd let me make this for him. So perhaps he will surprise me.

I start simple, to grasp the form. The pattern is easy enough to follow. My main concern is a crisp interior that won't so much as scratch against his face. One loose thread and I start the entire seam over. It must be perfect. When trying on the patch to test the material, I realize that a simple elastic band won't do. Something sturdy, but flexible enough to not illicit discomfort. There are so many details to be refined.

But refine them, I do.

When taking Juno's measurements, he of course objects. It's clear that I'm trying much too hard. But he hasn't even seen the pile of fabric and patterns on my floor. 

In that pile of fabrics inspiration strikes. I search my comms desperately for references and am sufficiently answered with people in a similar position as me. Have I already made a successful eyepatch at this point? Of course. But one or two more wouldn't hurt. Options. That's all a good wardrobe needs. So I race to the lounge.

"Miss Rita, are you available for a moment? I need a second opinion." I linger just in the threshold.

"Oh, yeah. Don't know how much of a help I can be, Mistah Glass. What exactly are you needin?" 

"Oh, nothing demanding. All I need is someone with the ability to distinguish colors of the red green variety."

———— 

_ Knock knock.  _

"Delivery," says Jet Sikuliaq through the door.

“Since when are you errand boy? Or is this a gift accompanied by a declaration of love?” I say as greeting, already eyeing the nondescript box he carries. It’s sizable, but doesn’t seem heavy. Although, I imagine it’s hard for anything to look very heavy in the big guy’s arms.

“I’m simply doing Buddy and Zadkiel a favor since they are not yet done preparing. It’s called being helpful, I suggest that you try it sometime.”

“Well, I love you too, big guy, but I don’t know if it’ll work out between us.” I take the package from him. “Was there anything else?”

“Buddy says to be dressed in thirty. Zadkiel said to let him know if you require assistance. With what he meant, I have no idea.”

“Cool.” The door slides shut and I am left with the container. When I open it up, as I expect there’s a selection of clothing meant for Regina Finch. On the very top lies a smaller wooden box, an ornate sort of sprawling red design on the edges. I open it much faster than I’m proud of. Inside is three custom-made eyepatches. There’s a note from Nureyev.

_ My Dearest Regina, _

_ I do hope these find their way into your wardrobe. Please tell me if there’s any modifications you desire, or if you have any requests at all. _

_ P.S. Never feel pressured to wear any that do not suit your fancy _

_ With love, Solomon _

The first patch is a deep black color with a layer of white lace over it. It’s a looping pattern, swirling across the surface. The handiwork is impressive; at least, I think it is. It looks the same to me as one store-bought or made by machines on a far outer planet. The joint between the patch and the string is sturdy and nearly invisible. I'm pretty sure I've gotten shittier from stores, actually.

The next one is solid white with a small red flower embroidered on that looks suspiciously like a dahlia, the small thin petals spread out more symmetrically than I'd think humans are capable of. Each petal evokes an image in my head of Nureyev sitting there for who knows how long, precisely placing each new loop. Did he sleep? Does he sleep?

But the last one is beyond impressive. At first when I see it I think Nureyev put a real rose in the box to be extra. But it's a soft fabric patch, with some black tulle around the base. Frankly, it's fucking elegant. I can't imagine myself ever wearing something so  _ nice _ . So I imagine Regina wearing it instead, and if that isn’t something.

I don’t know how long I’ve been staring at the eyepatches for, but I know Buddy set a deadline, so I carefully put the box to the side and start picking through the clothes she sent. I almost hear Nureyev’s voice in my head  _ tssk _ ing at this shirt or that jacket and reminding me that it doesn’t matter how fancy each piece is if they don’t match. So I grab a crisp white blazer and a far-too-red dress shirt to match the dahlia patch and dress as quickly as I can.

————

I had half a mind to be fashionably late to Solomon Finch’s debut. Then, the third time redoing my eyeliner, I was ready to be unfashionably late. But, the fourth application was a surprising success and I was impossibly  _ eager _ , so I made my way down to the dock early. Most of the cast is already assembled when I join. Buddy and Jet chat amicably while leaning against the wall, and Rita is concentrated on her comms, desperately downloading streams while still aboard the ship. Jet and Buddy look how I saw them not long ago, already in uniform. Buddy’s seems to parody a moving company’s uniform, practical but with a hat that obscures the features nicely. Jet is equipped with what is essentially his normal outfit, if slightly classier. Rita has recently changed into the gear of a ‘normal’ secretary, sporting a fun broach on her tastefully patterned sweater. It feels quite wrong to make Rita look so boring.

Vespa enters a few minutes later matching Buddy’s uniform and holding a manilla folder. She hands it off to Rita and starts explaining what sounds like everything she knows about FreyaLabs with a plentiful amount of grunts as punctuation. I devote some of my attention to listening, as you never know what will be useful later, but my eyes stay firmly planted in the direction of Juno’s room. I've already prepped quite a bit. And if my research fails me, well, there's someone with me who's observations pick up the slack.

And my, when such the lady appears, I'm simply floored. I think Vespa is still talking, somewhere distantly. I wouldn't know, as I'm suddenly across the room and facing  _ Juno _ . If my goal was to be the distracting trophy husband that simply overwhelms his sensibilities, I've forgotten it. "What a pretty picture my dear wife paints in this getup."

The sharp contrast of his pure white suit, blood red shirt, and the bright eyepatch against dark curls pouring over his forehead. His scars across his shining face. A touch of red eyeshadow above his eye. The way  _ my _ handiwork gleams against his flesh… 

I'm so very incredibly in love with him.

But that's not helpful right now. So we do not dwell.

"Don't make fun of me," he says. "The only thing keeping me from dying of mortification right now is you look just as ridiculously fancy."

"I did not mean to make fun of you, Juno." Though I am conscious of the rest of our team looking at us now, I don't find a place in my ministrations to care. Zadkiel be damned, Solomon is taking the wheel. "I know you have a self-hatred issue, but I assure you it was meant as a compliment. No sarcasm here. Only sincerity from your life partner, Solomon."

He's already started protesting, but Buddy cuts it off: "Alright. All present now, let's get ready to move in. Any last remarks or inquiries before we go?"

There is a pause where I expect Juno to say something snarky. When he doesn't, I interject, "I've got one: what are your thoughts on some minor pickpocketing while we're in the neighborhood?"

Buddy presses a hand to her temple and Vespa answers for her, "Do anything to jeopardize this mission and I'll jeopardize your face."


End file.
